


High Heel Drama

by Airdanteine



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Costumes, High Heels, JayDick-Flashfic, M/M, Stiletto Heels, Tumblr: JayDick Flash Fanwork Challenge, jaydick flashfic: costume drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 18:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airdanteine/pseuds/Airdanteine
Summary: Dick just wants to 1) wear heels and 2) look hot. Why is it so much pain? And where is Jason, the one person he’s trying to impress???





	High Heel Drama

Gotham crime fighting often put Dick into the strangest of situations. Being covered in a mountain of heels in a shoe shop was one of the more...unexpected incidents.

“Need help?” Jason waved a gloved hand before him, and Dick fought a sea of sharp, jutting stilettos to grasp Jason’s hand. He was pulled up, and shoes hit the ground in a squeaking cacophony. Vinyl was back, it seemed. 

Amidst all the mess, Jason arbitrarily pulled out a mannequin leg by the calf, with a red heel barely hanging off its plastic foot. Somewhat awkwardly, Jason fitted the shoe back onto the leg, and carefully placed it on a top shelf. Something about the way Jason treated the heel...Dick felt like there was something going on.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Dick joked, to which Jason responded with a scowl. 

“No.” Jason spat, but the way his eyes darted, he was hiding something. 

“You’re into this, aren’t you…” Dick’s voice trailed off, realising he might be right. His brain took interest. Something Jason was into.

“Eh. They’re hot,” Jason mumbled, and Dick watched a soft flush tint Jason’s cheeks. 

Huh, Dick thought, as he watched Jason notice Dick’s stare, jerk back, shoot his grapple, and fly away. 

Hot, he said?

~

Dick just wanted to wear heels and look hot.

Leopard was in (thank god) and the 80s was in (THANK GOD) but with less homophobia and more acceptance of gender nonconformation (_**THANK GOD,**_) so Dick took a singular day off work and patrol to shop his head off. It’s not his fault that H&M had literal racks, I mean _racks_ of leopard heels. It’s not his fault that they’re $15 to $25. It’s not his fault when he entered the T.J.Maxx isle and screamed at the branded, glossy red vinyl heels for $20. And how it reminded him of a certain moron handling a certain shoe. It’s not his fault that Christian Louboutin’s opinions matter for some reason and that every other heel gives him toe cleavage. 

Dick ate into the food budget that night. But was bringing the pairs home. 

“What d’you think?” Dick asked, switching his Facetime camera around to point at his feet, clad in the red vinyl heel. Barbara’s face lit up his phone screen, eyes wide in delight. She practically cooed at them as Dick flexed his toes, letting the glare of his bedroom light shine along it.

“It’s gonna be a whole thing, Barb,” Dick spoke between smiles, leaning forward to run a thumb along the pointy heel. “Just you wait.”

“Well, I know who this ‘thing’ is for,” Barbara teased, and Dick shrieked, blushed, and hung up.

Dick decided to take it easy first. Whenever he had a social calling, he’d wear something modern like a dress shirt and pants, and heels. Maybe a scarf! Then, once his extended family was sure he hadn’t gone fucking insane, he’d break out the bell bottoms and high collars. Tie dye. Crazier scarves. Heck he’d finally put on that skin tight shiny vinyl dress sitting in the back of his closet–

Take it slow first, Dick thought to himself. His discowing glory days will come.

And maybe a certain someone will take some fucking notice for once.

~

The seconds ticked away on his phone screen.

Dick had months to plan for this. Literal months. It wasn’t exactly like he had friends in Bludhaven to go out with. And family rarely met out of emergencies. So yes, Dick should have planned his outfit and heel combo well in advance.

Yet now, with very few minutes to being late for catching the train to Gotham, Dick stared between two heels. One was leopard felt, rounded closed toe with a chunky heel. Another the pointed glossy red vinyl heel, one he’d subconsciously deemed his favourite. Pointed closed toe, skinny heel. 

He’d worn a simple black blazer, red dress shirt and black pants (with a little bottom flair.) He also had a leopard scarf in hand to match the first heel. More importantly, Dick had never really worn a heel, so the leopard shoes were a better first time choice.

Yet the red vinyl…

See, a certain red bird told him that someone was hovering around the manor. Someone who usually got a sour taste on his tongue at the mention of Bruce. But he was making amends, slowly letting himself back into the family. Moreso, that Bruce had invited him to their next family gathering.

To Dick, wearing heels was a need for self-expression. Something he always wanted to do, click-clack around looking chic as hell. But he’d admit that a part of him also wanted to dress to impress this someone.

Plus the leopard shoes covered his toes completely. The red vinyl gave some toe cleavage.

“Fuck me,” Dick breathed, as he slipped the red heels on.

~

Dick felt like the heels were walking him, instead of him walking them. 

The Bludhaven train platform was a maze of old, cracked cobblestone, and Dick felt like he was on Wipeout trying to walk across those big red balls. Unstable and clumsy. He wasn’t used to his toes pointing down at such a sharp angle, and was dragging his feet across the road to walk. Instead of pretty clacking, he was getting shrill screeching. There were times where the pointed heel would stick into a niche or crack in the pathway, causing Dick to slightly tilt back. It was terrifying. 

Not to mention the pain. Fifteen minutes of walking and his toes were squashed into the pointed tip, with the weight of his body pressing on it. It was starting to feel like hell.

Right now though, his primary concern was catching the train. Dick looked at the electronic board filled with train times. 3 minutes. 5 minutes ago it was 10 minutes, so Dick wondered if the train, damn his shit karma, was for once, early. He looked at the maze of escalators to get to his platform, several platforms away. People were already hovering by the edge of the platform, ready to form lines and board. Dick breathed, looked at his escalator up, and sprinted to it.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he mouthed with clenched teeth, hoping the press against his gums would distract his from the pain. His ignored the clack-screeching. With one hand slapping and grabbing onto the escalator hand grab, he watched the yellow lines, closely, then neatly placed both feet within the step margins.

Dick swore, hand swiping the sweat on his brow, then the back of his neck. As the pain stabilised at a steady rate while standing still, he afforded the opportunity to look around. Several people on the platforms below him darted their heads away. Dick blushed. He’d probably put on quite the show.

As his escalator met the overhead platform, the blare of a horn sounded in the distance.

“Fuck!” Dick spat, eyes darting between his feet and the incoming train to his platform. The train would wait, but not for too long. Dick jumped from escalator to platform, landing with a pained skid. Hand hovering over the dusty railings of the overhead platform, he ran, leg carried before him one after the other in exaggerated lifts to ensure that he didn’t twist or slip. 

The train skidded to a stop and opened its doors just as Dick jumped onto the escalator step, only to slip. Dick’s arms flailed–his hand catching onto the escalator hand grab, clenching in wild fury. A foot landed at the edge of a moving step–and the other foot swung forward, the heel slipping off to hang barely on the tip of his toes.

Dick held that leg in the air, eyes wild and mouth a wide “O.” He slowly pulled his leg in toward himself, foot raised and meeting his waist. With a free hand he pushed the shoe back onto his heel. 

“Stand back while–” 

“SHIT,” Dick wildly looked at the doors, at the precipice of closing. He was midway down the escalator. His hand was still on his heel. In a second’s decision, he pulled the shoes off his feet, swerved his body over the escalator railing to fall and land on the platform. He jumped right in the train before it closed. 

Dick could feel eyes on him as he slumped against a wall, letting his poor feet rest before he got back into the heels and found his seat.

“Ticket?” A flat voice asked, and Dick glanced up to meet the conductor, palm outstretched and expression exceedingly unimpressed. The heat in his cheeks rising, Dick let his heels clatter to the floor before ruffling his pockets until he found his ticket. He took a second to sheepishly straighten it a bit before handing it to her. While she checked, Dick slowly eased his feet back into his heels, eyes wandering until it caught the gloss of the conductor’s shoes. Shiny black, pointed, but flat. Classy yet much more comfortable than what Dick was wearing.

“That’s smart,” Dick pointed at her shoes, letting her finish checking before noticing his remark. She looked at her flats, and smirked. 

“Still pointy, still hurts,” she retorted, before handing his ticket stub back to him. She opened the partition doors between the train doors and the seating area, pointing a hand to lead him in. Dick gave a curt nod walked in, the feeling of grooved metal train floors scrape against his heels.

“Try women’s pants. You won’t even have pockets,” she yelled behind him, before shutting partition doors close. Dick looked at the mass of seated daytime passengers eye him and his heels warily. 

Oh, whatever, Dick sighed, as he searched for a seat. Bad first time. But hey, for Dick this was...harsh training. The Manor would be much more forgiving than this.

~

Turns out, the cobble of the Manor’s driveway was hell on earth, more bumpy and coarse than the train platforms. He hobbled through it anyway, resigned to his fate. Dick had told the cabbie to drop him by the gates instead of inside, as he wanted to be seen strutting down the driveway. Not because of the more credible reason for others: in-house security. 

“Martha Wayne, how,” Dick looked up to the sky as he spat. Either this was Martha’s design, as was the entire manor, cobble instead of smoother tar. Or Bruce had redesigned and replaced it. For nefarious purposes, Dick could assume. 

Once at the massive manor door, Dick used his leopard scarf to pat down his sweaty face and neck. His pits would not be saved. It was a cool afternoon in Fall weather, but the heels had put him through true work. Dick looked forward to slumping on sofas, kashmeer blankets and throw pillows inside.

He raised a hand to make the door knocker land a few thuds, and was quickly greeted by firm yet subtly delighted eyes. 

“Master Dick,” Alfred spoke, a smile carving away at the straight corners of his mouth. Having long missed him, Dick wordlessly engulfed Alfred in a warm hug. A yelped resounded in a distance–Dick looked up to see a spiky tyke, a little taller than before, barrel toward him. Dick quickly let Alfred go so the latter could artfully step aside.

“Grayson!” Damian shouted as he leapt into his arms, and Dick quickly received in kind by grabbing and giving Damian a tight hug. It only took seconds for both of them to realise though: Damian was a little too tall and heavy now, and was slipping out of Dick’s arms. Moreover, for Dick himself, this was fucking hell on his already-battered feet. He slowly put Damian to the ground, and gave him a tighter hug once the weight was off his back.

Damian mumbled a vague “sorry” before detaching himself, and Dick gave Damian a rough hair ruffle in kind. Damian seemed to like that, for his eyes lit up again, tugging at Dick’s sleeve to follow. Dick started to walk, the clack of his heel a deep vibrato against maple wood floors. Damian jerked for a moment, before identifying the source of the sound.

“You walked in those medieval things?” Damian’s eyes bulged at the sight of his heels, as if Dick had trapped his feet in an iron maiden. Technically, Dick thought, it did feel like it was.

“They’re nice, Damian,” Dick defended, lifting a foot to watch it gloss under the chandelier lights. 

“I know,” Damian waved a hand, eyes trained on the shifting gloss himself. “Just that, Mother would yeet them into the Lazarus Pit if she had to wear them for the whole day.”

“I hope the journey was not too painful, Master Dick. We could have sent a car,” Alfred quipped, and Dick winced. He remembered his ‘fight,’ moreso battle of words with Alfred a few days ago. No, he wasn’t making the family chauffeur drive all the way to Bludhaven, or take a flight for what was a simple train ride. It wasn’t his fault that rich people didn’t understand distance.

“Yeah, those look...painful,” Tim’s head poked from behind the pantry door across them. You’d know, Dick chuffed in his head. He remembered well that Tim’s charade as Caroline involved some pretty white heels.

“Isn’t this normal? It’s just heels,” Dick shifted uncomfortably, not liking the pity party this was turning into. Dick wanted to look hot, not look like a dejected suffering puppy.

“It’s stiletto,” Barbara spoke as she herself clacked in, wearing a pair of black kitten heels. “It’s sexy to strangers, but pretty concerning to everyone who _knows_.”

“Well, I think I look hot,” Dick shrugged. His eyes darted around, looking for a particular bat. One who should have rolled in by now with a sleazy smirk and sniddier spats.

“Well, with the heels, Grayson, you’re the full article,” Damian retorted, as he walked ahead. “The complete himbo.”

“Him–what?” Dick asked, following Damian, but with no response.

“Just get in,” Tim sighed, and they all tucked their queries away for a moment to start their ever-so-rare family gathering.

~

Bruce made a noncommittal sound when he noticed Dick’s heels, but wisely chose not to comment. Rather, he’d given Dick the firm shoulder squeeze, and in a low voice, said “we’re waiting on him.” Dick flushed at that, letting hope surge through him, that his pain was not for nought.

Meanwhile, his feet _hurt_. Dick was resisting the great urge to tell everything to go fuck itself and fling the stilted devices into the Atlantic Ocean. But he had to trust his resilience, trust his training, trust himself to hold on. One day, he’d be able to wear heels all day, with no problem. He was gonna clack with confidence.

He gave himself some relief by leaning against the pool table, watching Damian skillfully maneuver a too-big stick to strike the white ball at its base, sending it flying in a perfect arch over a black ball, and clacking against a striped ball, which rolled and landed in a pocket. His opponent, Tim, blinked a few times, before yelling and hurling his stick in Damian’s vague direction. Considering that Alfred was in the kitchen getting dinner ready, and Bruce fucked off somewhere to play Brucie on the phone, Dick should be putting a stop to this. But with too pained feet, and frustration building, Dick didn’t feel like playing big bro.

“Alright, enough,” Barbara chirped up for him, thank god, he thought. The kids’ protested and hollered, before finally subsiding as they were sentenced to sit in separate chairs.

“You look like you sucked on a lemon,” Barbara spoke as she glanced at Dick, arms crossed. Rightfully pissed, probably. Dick wasn’t too in the mind to care.

“Hurts,” Dick just murmured, shifting weight between legs. He felt the other three exchanged incredulous looks.

“Then take it off,” Barbara responded, voice quizzical. “Sit down. No one’s making to wear it.”

“No, I’m breaking my feet in. I’m gonna be a heel power walker,” Dick clenched his fist, straightening his back to display his willingness. He was only getting confused looks in response. 

“You’re gonna get bunions,” Tim stated, pointing vaguely at his feet. 

“This isn’t permanent, Timmy,” Dick retorted, feeling defensive again. Why did he have to defend himself so much? Being a bat meant nightly pain of being battered by strangers. Heels were, comparatively, a much kinder pain.

“Fine, how long are you gonna wear ‘em?”

“Uh. Until…” Dick stopped, feeling the answer roll on the tip of his tongue. Until he gets it, Dick thought to himself. Until he sees me for me. Until he wants me. 

When Dick finally reentered reality, he found three pairs of eyes staring at him like cats staring at a fish in a fishbowl.

“What?” Dick asked, voice whinier than intended.

“Hopeless,” Tim muttered under his breath, prompting Barbara to smirk, Damian to pull a disgusted face, and Dick to blush hard, realising his intentions were no longer a secret.

~

After a little timeout, the three were back to mucking about the game room. Barbara took interest in their Dance Dance Revolution (DDR) machine, a well worn antique Dick was sure was well played by a young Bruce. Barb clacked her chunky heels away on the lit tiles, imbuing an unsettling jealousy within him.

“No!” Damian shrieked, as he was defeated again. Barbara chuckled in a baritone fit for villains, and Dick found himself watching more in amazement than amusement.

“Enough of you!” Damian waved away Barbara, who was stepping off anyway to give her feet a little break. 

“Grayson!” Damian pointed right at Dick. “I challenge you to this infernal machine!”

Gasps resounded around Dick.

“Dick. Take the heels off,” Tim warned, voice stern.

“Those are six inches, Dick,” Barbara sounded softer than usual, attempting to coax. “You’re gonna trip and twist an ankle.”

“No,” Dick spat, feeling his undying stubbornness overtake any semblance of self-preservation. Damn his hubris. “I’m gonna do it.” Damian looked more than delighted as Dick stepped onto the free platform. Tim looked at both of them in disgust. Barbara shook her head.

“Nightmare mode?” Damian asked, malice so evident in his smile. Dick nodded.

“Oh god,” Barbara gasped, as Dick stomped on the necessary selection buttons, and locked his mode.

This music track was abrupt, starting with as many combo moves as possible. Dick was well-versed, but extremely unused to hopping around on heels. But he took every lesson he learned running around Bludhaven train platforms and jumped, completing combo after combo with good timing and speed. It wasn’t great or perfect, with what having to slam his leg down in one stiff movement without turning or twisting it in any way. But he’d get there.

The song slowed for a moment, letting Dick stomp as slowly as necessary, before picking up again in what resulted in intense leg-coordination and stomping. Dick’s feet _burned_ as he jumped and jumped and jumped, the metal base beneath him vibrating from the repeated slams of his heels. The heels clacked so loud–it sounded like his stiletto point would break glass at any moment. 

In nightmare mode, both Damian and Dick couldn’t miss a step, or it would end their round. And Dick was winning, no matter what. Dick could hear the hooting and hollering of Barb and Dick, and a shadowy figure hover around a door to his left. He could do it, and he could do it in heels.

The final chorus came in. Dick, huffing for breath, leaned back to grab onto the railings behind him. The combo markers rushed in at an inhuman pace–Dick stomped his feet, up left, down left, up right, up right–centre, rightrightleftrightleft–his heels scrapped and clacked a din as he achieved perfect rating after perfect rating. He could hear the howls of Damian beside him, as the song finally closed, with Dick jumping and landing on the final two steps.

“How the fuck did you do that?!” A gruff voice quizzed to his right. All heads swerved toward it–a particularly shocked looking Jason, crouching on the sill of an open window. Dick’s mouth hung open.

“Oh, you know...” Dick’s voice trailed as he tried to summon bravado, but came up empty. He knew his eyes were a little dilated, so he probably looked caught in the act.

“Oh my god,” Tim facepalmed, and Barbara motioned a finger to her lip as she guided Damian and Tim out the room. Dick saw a glimpse of Bruce’s coat turn too, as they all made space.

Dick slowly stepped off the machine as Jason descended to the floor, finally feeling the full abrasive pain of his stomping movements hit him full force. Dick’s legs practically collapsed–if Jason didn’t dive to catch him, Dick might have completely crumpled to the ground. 

“Why are you wearing that,” Jason asked, voice husky in proximity. Dick was still in Jason’s arms. Jason’s eyes were completely trained on the red heels, now scuffed with black scrapes at its treatment. Dick winced, knowing there was no saving it.

“Just, you know…” Dick darted his eyes from his shoes to Jason’s eyes, which seemed to dawn from realisation.

“Oh. When I uh. Right,” Jason’s words fumbled, as a pink flush settled into his face. So slowly, too, like before. Dick watched in fascination.

Dick felt gloved hands sneak onto his back, pulling them chest to chest. Dick looked up at Jason, who looked right back with intense eyes.

“I’ve finally got your attention, huh,” Dick whispered, as he leaned his face closer to Jason’s.

“You’ve always had it, doll,” Jason whispered, as they finally locked lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Attack them in the fetish!! If you like this, do leave a kudos, comment, and follow me on my tumblr [Airsart!](https://airsart.tumblr.com)


End file.
